Here
by The Fat Chipmunk
Summary: [FC] While everyone was sleeping, she slipped out the back door.


**Here**

* * *

While everyone was sleeping, she slipped out the back door.

Mum would have a troll if she ever discovered that her only daughter had left the protection of the Burrow alone. But, smart daughter tha she was, she'd stuck her wand within easy reach right in the back pocket of her jeans (despite what Mad-Eye growled about elementary wand safety, _she _hadn't seen anyone missing a buttock yet), and besides, no sane Death Eater would go spying in such a confounded downpour on pain of death. She reckoned if she stayed still in one place for too long, the rain would pound her into the ground.

Leaden gray clouds stampeded in a chaotic jumble across the stormy skies, stubbornly refusing to yield to the sun. Every once in a while, a flash of lightning scarred the grayish black expanse, with thunder following in its wake like the roar of an infuriated dragon. She steadily walked through the buckets of water that plunged from the heavens, threatening to drown the world. She squelched through it, feeling the water fill her sneakers and gush between her toes. It didn't seem so horrible, drowning.

She'd hardly made it past the fence, and her clothes were already plastered to her skin. The light jacket she'd pulled on weighed her down now, and her drenched jeans made it feel like she was walking with several erumpents holding on to her legs. Sheets of rain slashed down diagonally, stinging and biting at her skin like the nips of an irritated owl.

Every now and then, she had to raise a hand and swipe a rain-soaked strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it firmly behind her ear; a second or two later, it straggled back across her forehead, streaming water into her eyes. She constantly blinked against the blurriness that was the rain – or it might have been something else – as she fought through the deluge toward –

Toward where? She didn't know, and wasn't concerned about it, either. Where her feet were going to take her, she was willing to go, as long as it was out of the Burrow, away from every thing and every memory that reminded her of the things she'd lost.

…But even out here, there was no escaping the memories, the feelings… Everywhere she stepped, she had stepped before with him; every place she saw, she had seen him there. Every thought led to reflections of him, dreams of him, of his eyes and his scar and his destiny and his smile and – most of all – his words. She couldn't tell whether it was a blessing or a curse, not ever being able to know what could have been…or what should have been.

One month into the humid, awkward summer and she already missed him. Never before had she had anything so precious that she'd been forced to give up. Having it – and knowing that if she really wanted, she could still have it – and letting it go so quickly stung her.

Being at home was no help, with members of the Order filtering in and out every hour of the day, morning or night, looking haggard and weary and sick of fighting, never bringing good news, and, if on the off chance that they did, bringing enough bad news along with it to overshadow that little speck of hope.

Dad was up all night sometimes, either at home or at the Ministry, arguing with those bullheaded Ministry fools whose minds held nothing but ideas of glory and fame and winning and all else that stemmed from delusional hope.

Ron had a cloudy, distant look in his eyes these days, and he sighed too often for comfort. Seriousness had never been one of his strong points, but now he rarely smiled, let alone laughed. Everything he said reflected his perpetual worry for Harry and Hermione. Mum fretted about his lack of interest in food and Quidditch and Dad was warily surprised about his sudden concern for studying. Even she'd been unpleasantly taken aback to find books with rather ominous titles strewn about his room – _Killing Curses: The Power Behind the Spells, Unnamed Horror: The Era of Shadows, Quest for Power, Defensive Magic: Essential Spells. _And somehow, she had no doubt that he was actually reading them.

Charlie, who'd come back from Romania nearly a year ago now, was vague and distracted. Though he'd never quite been her favorite brother, it was Charlie who had stopped every once in a while to point out mistakes in her schoolwork, drop hints about Quidditch, and join in when she teased Ron. Nowadays, she wasn't sure whether Charlie even remembered he had a sister.

Bill, who she'd always felt was someone to look up to, someone to ask questions to, someone who tried everything to comfort her, was scarcely around anymore. Whenever she asked after his whereabouts to Mum, the answer was the same: _He's with Fleur. _If she'd hated Phlegm before, she detested her now. She was like a leech – slowly, steadily tearing her eldest brother away from his family when family unity was one of the only reassurances left.

But it wasn't just Bill. The twins, who from day one had been willing to provide comic relief in nearly every awkward situation, weren't even disposed to showing their faces. Every day they stayed holed up in their stupid store, whispering only to each other.

And then there was Percy, the Insensitive Wart. He showed all the sensitivity of a blunt axe and had the emotional capacity of a thimble. Everyone told Mum to just give up on sending him cards and presents at Christmas – he wasn't worth the pain a returned package brought. But Mum being Mum, she always sewed seven sweaters when the time came, always wrote out seven cards, always cooked enough food for nine, not eight. She was probably the only one who still knew his birthday.

With her entire family occupied one way or another, there was no one to talk to, no one to confide in. No one even considered little Ginny's feelings anymore; she supposed that, being the baby and all, they figured she was oblivious to what was going on, that she just pranced along in her world, as happy and cheerful as always.

She couldn't even talk to Hermione. She was just the same as Ron – they'd written each other once so far, and all she'd talked about was Harry this, Harry that.

And as she walked, she tried to hate him. She told her mind to repeat the litany – _"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"_ – for doing this to her, for making her feel this way, for putting her in this Merlin-be-damned situation. Against her will, her feet stopped, and if her feet sunk into the mud, she didn't notice, didn't care, because she had closed her eyes and stepped out of the world.

* * *

"_He saw me hex Zacharias Smith. You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him – when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to get detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?"_

"_Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's famous."_

* * *

"_Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're not the Captain of this team – "_

"_Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should – "_

* * *

"_Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry."_

_Laughing, he broke free of the rest of team and hugged her…_

* * *

"_You'd think people had better things to gossip about. Three dementor attacks in a week, and all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it's true you've got a hippogriff tattooed across your chest."_

"_I told her it's a Hungarian Horntail. Much more macho."_

* * *

"_Ginny, listen… I can't be involved with you anymore. We've got to stop seeing each other. We can't be together."_

"_It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?"_

"_It's been like…like something out of someone else's life, these last few weeks with you. But I can't…we can't…I've got things to do alone now. Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He's already used you as bait once, and that was just because you're my best friend's sister. Think how much danger you'll be in if we keep this up. He'll know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you."_

"_What if I don't care?"_

"_I care. How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral…and it was my fault…"_

"_I never really gave up on you. Not really. I always hoped… Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more – myself."_

"_Smart girl, that Hermione." I just wish I'd asked you sooner. We could've had ages…months…years maybe…"_

"_But you've been too busy saving the Wizarding world. Well…I can't say I'm surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn't be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that's why I like you so much."_

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, she had wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing tightly as if her body would vanish if she didn't take hold of it. Why did this have to be so hard? She thought she'd understood – she thought her body, her mind, and her heart had accepted the fact, had accepted that it was time to move on. No – not move on. She would never move on. She would wait. She would wait until she died, if she had to, because he had promised to come back. _Promised._

But if waiting hurt this much, she didn't know how long she could bear it.

She wriggled her toes, feeling the weight of the mud they were buried under. If only she could bury herself…to hide away her emotions, lock away the feelings…

Something welled up in her chest, something enormous and indescribable, something that made her eyes sting and her nose run. It wanted out, it wanted to scream and shout and rage and sob and howl and never ever stop until the world ended. And she thought about letting it do what it wanted, since it was fairly close to what she wanted to do herself. She breathed out, a soft exhalation through a slightly opened mouth that was instantly lost in the downpour.

But as much as she resented him, she couldn't help but wish that he were here. She hoped against all odds – hoped and prayed so hard, even as she told herself it couldn't, wouldn't, ever come true – that he would be there when she turned around, to kiss her, to hug her, to tell her everything would be all right, that he'd been an idiot and would never leave her again…

She wished until it hurt and she denied the possibilities of that wish coming true until she couldn't tell which one was her original thought.

She was half aware of her body shivering uncontrollably. How long had she been standing in the rain? Everything was blurry – even the ground, just a few feet away, swam in a thick haze. It flitted across her mind that this probably wasn't healthy. She could catch her death out here, as Mum liked to say. In fact, there was nothing she'd like better than to collapse, to let the earth open up and carry her away into blissful darkness. There was no harm, was there? No harm…

Yet a stubborn corner of her mind would not dismiss the chance, however infinitesimal, that if she just turned around, he would be waiting for her…

_If I just turn around…_

She closed her eyes.

With a great sucking noise, she pulled one foot out the mud, then the other. Then, very deliberately, she turned around. With eyes still shut, she took a step forward, then another, and another. Stumbling, faltering, she made her way back to the Burrow, praying with every step to any entity there was to pray to that any moment, his hands would take hers and pull her close…

But in the end, when she opened her eyes, no longer tasting just rain, still fifteen paces from the back door, it was her mum that stood there waiting for her. It was Mum standing in the doorway, her apron plastered against a once-plump stomach, straggles of hair sticking to her face so that she almost looked young again - a face that was set in the way thatall Weasley children learned to recognize as an augury of lectures.

But maybe being able to distinguish the tears from the rain was just something mothers learned, something you needed to know when you had seven children, because Mum didn't say anything, didn't scold or look disapproving at all. Instead, she came out to wrap her arms around her only daughter, regardless of the pounding rain, the cold, the ridiculousness of it all.

And then Mum whispered what all mothers should whisper into their daughter's ears, what she, Ginny Weasley, should have known all along:

_"I'll always be here for you."

* * *

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